Just For This Morning

I am not used to feeling inarticulate but lately, I don’t seem to be able to organize or express my thoughts. I feel weighted down and defenseless with an army of what if’s attacking from every direction. I feel a little anxious, a little sick, a little panicky, and a lot enraged. When I think of all the things I could be accomplishing and am not, I feel guilty, but it takes all my energy and strength just to lay on the love seat and catnap and worry. In spite of what my reason and common sense are telling me, in spite of the fact that I have $3000 in savings, in spite of my knowing absolutely that this will pass, I feel doomed. I have no hope for my country and no faith in humanity, especially the humanity in my part of the country. It’s irrational and unhealthy and morbid but there it is.

I have moments when I think it’s the end of the world and that the current government really is committed to killing us all in the name of greed, profit and reelection. I have moments when the only peace/solace/relief/hope I can find is under the covers with the dogs. I have far too many “What’s the point” moments when I feel sick and suicidal. The world is upside down and coming apart at the seams from stress and uncertainty and isolation and despair. One more story about the lethal shortage of protective equipment or the push for untested drugs or mass graves on Hart’s Island will do me in. One more incoherent and indefensible lie from the president will send me over the edge. One more evangelical extortion ad to send money or burn in hell will make me want to take up arms. In South Louisiana, we have an infamous preacher who is still shouting proud to bus his flock in for Sunday services. I say let them come. Then bar the doors of the church and set it on fire. If their preacher and their God save them, well and good. If not, there’ll be a smidgen less evil and ignorance in the world.

This plague will pass, I suppose, and maybe the world will eventually right itself in time for the next one. Or not if the pestilence that currently rules us stays in charge.

The weekend arrives, although it’s almost impossible to tell one day from another, and I’m up early to be at the grocery store for the Elder Shopping Hour. They are out of Country Crock but there’s plenty of Diet Coke in the 6 ounce glass bottles – apart from cigarettes and Ghirardelli Caramel Squares, the only thing I cannot live without – and then I make a quick stop at the bank to deposit my check (remembering to be grateful for still being able to work and be paid) and I’m done. I retreat to the quiet isolation of my small house and distract myself with the laundry and the dusting and the litter boxes. Just for this morning, I will not give in to the urge to hide under the covers and weep.